


A Very Loud Tent at Woodstock

by PrincipalityofOldHags



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Touch-Starved, Woodstock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincipalityofOldHags/pseuds/PrincipalityofOldHags
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are on something of a vacation and have found themselves rocking up at Woodstock, 1969. But it seems like they may never leave their tent.





	A Very Loud Tent at Woodstock

There was a period in the 60s where Aziraphale and Crowley spent quite a lot of time together. One week, actually. it was Upstate New York, so obviously it was lovely, but the two didn’t see the outside of their tent for a good two days.

_“Angel.”_

“Don’t Angel me, I know what I’m doing.”

“Then get on with it,” said Crowley through gritted teeth. 

Aziraphale tutted, and adjusted himself once more. “Breathe normal, Demon.”

“How can I when you’re—“ Crowley’s shoulder clicked back into place and the demon screamed loud enough to make the nudist quartet outside blush deeply. It _was_ Woodstock, but even they had standards. 

“There you go old man. Gosh, you would have thought you were dying, all that moaning—“

“It bleeding hurt, you piss pot.” 

“Piss pot? Such a poet,” tutted Aziraphale, eyes twinkling over his cup of tea. The demon glowered back at him, and the angel smirked once more into his lukewarm tea leaves. With no electricity, Crowley had thought up an interesting little electric kettle that Aziraphale was enjoying immensely.

Crowley sprang to his toes, and peered out the tent flap. “Looks like rain”

“Again?”

“Well, you could probably do something about it?”

“We’re both out of goodwill for the time being. I don’t think storm clouds warrant a miracle today.”

And indeed, the two beings were spent. Their months had been taken up with all sorts of acts in the northern-most point of South Vietnam. Aziraphale was naturally there, working in a medical unit and doing his best to not wind up in a POW camp with the steady flow of bungling Americans who kept turning up on his stretchers. 

One morning, already strewn with enough blood to turn his fair hair a muddy brown, the angel had looked up to see drawn, tawny eyes staring at him from across the emergency room. 

“Crowley?” he had croaked. “Good God, is that really you?”

“Dunno,” Crowley mumbled. He was barely upright, having spent three months trying to wrangle his way out of Hanoi. Not a clean sheet insight, and truly the worst roads he had ever driven on. He had been looking forward to a nice, easy decade. Maybe take up judo. But first Korea, and now this— he had been getting commendations left and right for his performance but for all he knew he woke up and there were two fully formed wars. He never raised a finger. 

Well, he did have something to do with those dictator haircuts. But now Cambodia was trembling with the effort of not exploding into war and it was just too much already. Too flashy. Too much to keep on top of. No, he needed help with this one. He needed an angel. 

So he struck out to find Aziraphale. Together, a few well placed miracles, they staunched some of it. A village survived the night, a rampaging commanding officer got fragged by his own men, a beloved dog made it back home. 

But there was too much to do, and Aziraphale started getting snippy notes. Too much, was the party line. Some things need to take their course. You are interfering. Stop heating up old ladies’ porridge. 

Crowley stopped too. It was no use blowing their Arrangement.

So they journeyed over to America and quickly decided that they did not like the Hippies. Well, Crowley decided. Aziraphale liked some of the music, and their weed was quite good. 

Then some of the Hippies decided that Woodstock was a great location for a music festival, and Crowley tagged along, hoping to find something to distract himself. 

He started the week by trying to gage how dysentery would affect the proceedings. With one toilet per 500 people, it was shaping up to be a great week. And then Crowley got stampeded on. Served him right, Aziraphale thought. Give a thousand people dysentery and then stand between them and their toilets. But it was taking them quite a bit longer to get Crowley back into shape than normal. 

First off, they were both wary of any appearance that they were helping one another. Second, Crowley didn’t want there to be any record that he had almost died due to peace-loving shitters. Third, they really weren’t in a rush.

It had been nice, working together in Vietnam. The two beings had felt oddly settled. They fought less, and talked more. About the close scrapes, the amazing sights and adventures. Then, as the nights waned and Aziraphale brought out several cases of wine that he had packed, they moved to darker topics. The century where Crowley didn’t get out of bed, couldn’t make himself do anything. How Aziraphale’s parrots who kept dying in mysterious ways. The knowledge that they were the only family they would ever know, and at some point they were bound to lose eachother.

Crowley sat down next to his old friend, and pulled out a crisp deck of cards. 

“Play?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“Please, not now.”

“Why ever not? I’m bored as hell, and you aren’t doing anything—“

“I want to ask a question,” the angel burst out, words tripping over themselves. “But I don’t know if you’ll want to answer it.”

“If it’ll make you stop sitting like that, I’ll do anything.”

The angel shot him a withering look, and tried to relax back onto his pillows. The demon lounged like it was an olympic sport, but Aziraphale fluttered back and forth like a nervous hummingbird, eventually ending up looking like a statue that had been plopped onto a pouf. 

“Can I see where your wings were removed?” He asked. Crowley stiffened, and the angel sat back up, worrying his pale lips. “It’s only— I’ve been so worried, you see, all these years with the Arrangement— and I have been thinking about it more and more, and I want to know,” he trailed off, and the demon was shocked to see the fear swirling in the grey depths of his friend’s eyes. 

“You want to know if it hurts?” He asked gently.

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

“Why not just ask me? I can tell you about it, you don’t need to see—“

“I do,” said Aziraphale staunchly. “I need to see them. It will help me stay on the— the straight and narrow.”

Crowley moved closer, a predatory tilt to his smile. “And what is it that is tempting you from the straight and narrow, my dear Angel?” He clamped his hands around the armrest of Aziraphale’s chair and leaned down, his serpentine eyes glimmering. He was dangerously close. The angel could smell the leather of his jacket, and the musk of some cologne so incredibly Crowley that would be worth millions if it were bottled. 

“Don’t be smart with me.” Aziraphale shot back, eyes wide but maintaining his composure. “I’ve never been as comfortable with the Arrangement as you are, Crowley, don’t put on any illusions that this is some sort of— of victory for yourself.”

“I’ll keep my illusions, thank you very much.” 

“Just show me the damn stubs, Crowley.”

Crowley, begrudging and a little nervous, straightened up. “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll have to kneel for you to see them properly. Also, they aren’t exactly stubs.” 

“Very well. Get thee to thy knees, demon.”

Crowley whipped around sharply. “You absolute—“

“Oh shush,” chuckled the angel. “You aren’t the only one allowed to be funny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled the tawny demon, settling on the bare floor of the tent. “Hilarious, bookworm, celestial being. Aren’t you a catch.”

He felt fingers running across his shoulder blades and suppressed a shiver. From behind him, Aziraphale murmured some sort of agreement, apparently absorbed by the task of revealing the place where wings once sprung from Crowley’s back.

Crowley steeled himself. The wounds had closed after few thousand years, but they were tender to the touch and generally not something he showed to the public. The demon sighed, and threw a rare prayer— not to anyone in particular, just a general wish really— that his friend was gentle with the remnants of his celestial body. 

He need not have worried. 

The moment he released the shirt to the ground, Aziraphale sighed in delicate sadness. There, two gaping black slashes, one on each shoulder blade. They were so deep they puckered with their own depth, and he wondered whether stitches might have been needed for such a wound. Then he remembered how hospitals hadn’t been invented when Crowley had fallen, let alone the knowledge of sterilization and curved needles.

They were quiet for a few minutes as Aziraphale gazed at the wounds, his minds-eye moving at a breakneck pace.

“May I touch them?”

Crowley considered the request. He had never let anyone see them, let alone touch them. But if not Aziraphale, then who? There was no other being in the universe that he would trust more than the one behind him. He nodded, and then cool palms pressed gently into the base of his neck and the demon collapsed forward with ecstasy.

When he came to, Aziraphale was still there, his fingers still laying against the base of his skull, his hands still nowhere near the scars.

“Are you okay?”

Crowley nodded, afraid to speak. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

He shook his head violently. No, he would plead with God herself to keep the angel’s palms pressed into the muscles of his shoulders. Touch, something he had never spent his time on Earth seeking. It was too pedestrian, getting a back massage or a girlfriend. There wasn’t even a casual acquaintance who wasn’t too terrified of him to sling a collegial arm around his shoulders while they walked to breakfast. No, the last person to touch him was… he was stumped. Maybe a handshake, the last time he and the angel went to lunch.

But now, he had a taste of what it could be. Crowley found himself positively starved for the soft pressure of the angel on his skin, and embarrassment had barely flickered through his mind before his friend had kneeled with him, and pressed Crowley to lay with his belly on the soft down of his sleeping-bag. 

Aziraphale murmured something soothing at him. and ground the base of his palm deeper into Crowley’s back. A sound wracked through the demon’s body, somewhere between a groan and an invocation. 

The angel stopped. “Did— did you just say—”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“I’m not,” assured Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice free of judgment. “But, really, I can stop—“

“Don’t you fucking dare,” said Crowley through his teeth. 

Miffed and pleased all at once, Aziraphale moved his palms slightly lower and pressed again into the stringy tendons of the demon’s back. 

“ _Dear God_.”

Aziraphale moved them down once more, bolder now. This time the demon made a hollow moan, mouth screwed tight to keep the lord's name from escaping again. 

“I can stop.”

“Please don’t,” whispered Crowley, his eyes closed. There was a tenderness in his voice that Aziraphale had only ever heard by accident, and that drew the angel into an almost trancelike devotion. He would move heaven and earth just to hear the demon use that voice again. 

Aziraphale traced the outlines of the scars one at a time, two fingers along the bluish rim of the gashes. First the right one, then the left. Crowley stayed silent, coiled in trepidation. Then the angel pressed two fingers into the groove of each scar. 

Their bodies jerked in unison, and Crowley’s face went slack before it hit the floor. The two of them were drawn in a tiny circle of white light, and every neuron in their bodies fired at once. There was suddenly nothing, just the two of them in a perfectly-temperatured Nothing, waves of it crashing over their heads, divine pleasure at it’s most potent. 

The sensation slammed through them again, and Aziraphale could do nothing except press his face into Crowley’s back and taste the sweat that beaded on the demon’s spine. It lasted a lifetime and could have lasted a thousand more if Aziraphale’s fingers hadn’t slipped. 

They awoke back on the ground, breathing heavily.

Crowley cracked an eye open. He had been thoroughly wrung, and he twisted, frantic for a second to see Aziraphale. The weight on his back shifted and the angel’s face wove before him, offering a hand. 

He grabbed it, and pulled. Instead of rising, Aziraphale was suddenly on top of him, face very close. Taste of spearmint, but not gum, something earthy and so incredibly Angel. Crowley followed it, wondering how he had never smelt it before, in all the years he had spent sitting, eating, talking beside the celestial being. 

His nose bumped into Aziraphale’s and the pale man grinned, straightening out the demon’s wayward locks. 

“Now now,” he murmured. “Watch where you’re going, Demon.”

Crowley pressed his forehead harder into Aziraphale’s, wanting to wear his skin for a moment.

“Make me, Angel.”

Aziraphale carefully brushed a few hairs from Crowley’s dark brow. “Is that a request?”

The words tore themselves from deep inside his soul, brutal and hoarse. “Yes,” he said, looking hard into Aziraphale’s gentle eyes. “Please, Angel.”

Aziraphale nodded. He crossed the last few inches between their mouths without a moment’s hesitation. Because nearly six thousand years was enough of a hesitation. 

It was an odd thing, pressing their mouths together. But they warmed to it, this human expression of affection. The demon whimpered like a child whenever Aziraphale’s lips left his. There was nothing in the universe he wanted more than the taste of spearmint, there was nothing to do but grip him tighter and hope that this never ended. 

Aziraphale’s hands found his waist and drew their bodies imperceptibly closer. “How do you want to do this?” He asked urgently. Crowley was stupefied, jaw slightly open. The angel swore colorfully and growled in his ear. “You’re ineffable, you know that? How do you want to do this?”

Crowley was surprised to find himself uncertain, his pulse jumping in his throat. “However you’ll have me, Angel,” he said quietly. 

“Oh, such a drama queen,” snickered Aziraphale. He knelt down and slipped his hand under the demon’s belt. He looked up for permission once again. And pressed his hand between Crowley’s legs. Each afraid to look away, he slowly, torturously ground his hand into the flesh of his demon. 

Crowley nearly blacked out once more. He wouldn’t call what he had been doing since the Beginning “celibacy” exactly. That was such a celestial ideal, it wasn’t on-brand for him. But this kind of movement, and the way his mortal body reacted, made him forget that he had absolutely no idea what was to be done. 

“Shall I do it again?”

“Once more, yes, I think— Ah— that would be best.”

He shook with the effort to not release himself.

Aziraphale stopped, viewing the writhing sweat-soaked creature before him. “May I have a try?” he asked.

Crowley bowled him over, awkward for the first time in his life as he tried to worm his way through the angel’s layers. 

“Damnit to hell, why do you _wear_ all this?” He hissed, pawing at the velvet standing between him and the angel he would very much like to know better. 

Aziraphale carefully unbuttoned his vest and folded it on a chair. “It’s quite comfortable,” he said unhurriedly. “I’ve actually found—“

Crowley huffed, his access unrestricted but his partner babbling on about the sexual preferences of seventeenth-century monarchs. He took a moment, and a wicked idea popped into his head, as they often did. He dropped to his hands and knees and positively slithered towards the bare angel. He sunk his mouth over the angel’s hardened flesh and gave it a strong lick. 

Aziraphale stopped talking, struck dumb for a moment. 

Crowley quite liked that. 

Crowley also liked it when the angel was beneath him, the muscles of his back straining and his body fluttering around the demon, moaning for more whenever the demon slowed for even a second. 

“Can I— can you—“ Crowley nodded in agreement, and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, bringing him to sit on his crouched lap. 

“Here?”

“ _There, dear God_ ,” whispered Aziraphale, before grinding himself back on the demon. 

Crowley nodded again and pressed his face into the back of the angel’s neck. He wanted Aziraphale to know something before he spent himself within the angel (who was at the moment doing his best to drive him to the edge of comprehension). There was just one thing left unsaid between them, and if he didn’t have the courage now to say it, he may never have the chance again. 

“You are— fucking hell, you are a saint— you are the only being in the universe that matters a bit, to me. You know that right?”

Aziraphale leaned back and brushed his lips against Crowley’s. “I’ve always known that.” He pulled Crowley closer to him and nuzzled into the arms that held him in place. “You are the same to me, Demon. Always have been.”

And all was lost. Crowley threw away all composure, thrusting like a madman into the angel before him, who let out a guttural sound of joy that would have set even God’s ears on fire. Crowley joined him a moment later, their cries intertwining and echoing out over the campsite. 

They lay together, spent for a moment. Crowley looked over at the pale angel and cracked a smile. Aziraphale returned it, eyes bright. They didn’t need to say it again. 

The angel brushed the sweat from his upper lip and grinned devilishly at Crowley. “Now, it’s my turn, yes?”

“Oh yes,” whispered the demon, breathing faintly into his lover's neck as they re-situated themselves upon the limp sleeping bag. 

And Crowley found he didn’t mind being the one who yielded for Aziraphale, not when the angel found the folds of his scars once more and thew him into ecstasy again and again, through the night and into the next one. 

The nudist quartet had to move a few tents down because of the noise. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It's not much, but it's mine.
> 
> I don't claim to own the characters, or anything else.


End file.
